Page 22 of The Teras Trials

Once again, no one moves. I pray away the rapid pace of my heart. This explanation feels. . .lax. I rack my brain for any conversation I’ve had with Thad that might tell me more about these trials. Nothing comes. Not one thing. I only have the sense of grief and exhaustion that came after Thaddeus’ graduation. For three years I had the peace of my own room whilst he studied here, and tough many graduates stay on campus, he returned for our mother’s benefit. But he came back a different man.

Ahead of me, the dean continues with a gesture to the professors standing beside him. “Before we begin, I thought it might be best to introduce you to the professors you’ll be studying under, should you successfully complete the trials. Everyone standing here are experts in the field and have studied under the four founders of the University, or their direct proteges. We are lucky to have them.”

He points first to an overly tall and stern man with a large hook nose and flat brown hair that falls to his cheeks. He is forty-something, but the way he rounds his shoulders makes him appear much older. “For the Mantle of the Scholar, you would learn under Professor Siward Hardinge. This is the mantle for those of you who know the power in books, those who can take what you read and know how to apply it to this world.”

The dean moves along to a lithe, sinewy woman who looks to be in her sixties. She has stark white hair in a short curly bob, and tough, sun-darkened skin. Scars pockmark her left cheek and down the neck, thick, silvery streams disappearing beneath her collar. Her left leg is missing. A shining marble prosthetic takes its place. The dean puts a gentle hand on her shoulder and her hard exterior crumples as she flashes him a smile.

“This is Professor Bedelia Dexter. For our brave students who wish to take up the Mantle of the Hunter, Professor Dexter will train you well. She learned directly from Angelica d’Avore, the first Hunter, in her final year alive. You’ll be in good hands.”

“God, she’s terrifying,” Bellamy whispers beside me. “I’ll be having nightmares of her classes for years, I bet.”

“Aren’t you the pansy,” Victoria quips.

I ignore them and turn instead to Leo. I don’t know why. I just want to see his reaction. His eyes are fixed on the professor, lit up and hungry. I take her in again myself. Years ago, I would have gone prostrate before Professor Hardinge, just to soak in every bit of knowledge in that man’s brain. Thad could have held the mantle of Hunter alone. I would have been well within my right.

Now, I must declare for Professor Dexter—if she’ll have me. With a cohort this size, and with the letter every one of my Londoner brethren received, I know mostly everyone will be vying for the Hunter mantle first and foremost.

I have to stand out in these trials. I have to.

The next professor we are introduced to is a larger, round woman in her early forties. She has long blonde hair. Half of it is tied up, but the rest falls over her shoulders. She leans against a cane, though there is no obvious injury. She smiles out at the waiting students, but there is something in her eyes that makes me reject that happy exterior.

“Professor Flyta Yoxall,” the dean announces, “is our resident Healer. What she does is invaluable. Any who take up this mantle will join Hunters in the fight against the teras and make sure they survive the encounter. An incredible cause to dedicate one’s life to.”

Professor Yoxall gives a sheepish smile as the dean moves along to the final professor. He is tall and broad shouldered with a severe face. His strong jaw is covered by a salt-and-pepper beard. Thin spectacles rest on his face, and he clutches a thin book to his chest as he surveys the crowd. He wears a startling number of rings on his fingers.

The dean slaps him on the back, but the professor barely gives a smile. “This is Professor Wesley Wymane, who will teach all of you interested in the Artificer stream how to use your hands to best serve London. Our own Professor Dexter wears some of Professor Wymane’s artistry.”

Professor Dexter displays her artificer-made leg for us prospective students to a round of excited applause.

“And here ends the introductions,” the dean says. “Room assignments will be announced soon.”

It is such a quiet and unassuming end that I jolt when he finishes. I look at the professors and wonder if I am wrong about them; if they are older than they look, more ancient. If I consider London beyond this campus, and England beyond that, is there a way to quantify the impact of these four individuals? On how many lives they’ve saved?

Conspicuously, though, there is not a foreigner amongst them.

“Rooms are assigned,” Bellamy spits. “Looks like we won’t be playing house with your xenos, Cass.”

I stand without thinking. “Don’t count on that, Taylor.”

I look from my little party, and then back to the dean. I’d like to think he owes me, and I tell myself he does because that’s what it takes to spark some courage in me. The rules of this game are beyond me, but I don’t believe for a second it’s as simple as the dean suggests. We cannot leave here unless we pass.

What happens if we don’t?

The dean is in conversation with Professor Dexter when I approach. They both turn, and there’s an assessing look in the Professor’s eyes as she looks over me. I find myself praying that she doesn’t recognise me, but of course she does; I share Thad’s large nose, and I have a more gaunt version of his filled-out face.

“Cassius Jones, I presume,” she says. I’m surprised to hear a distinctive, upper-class accent, and have to wonder if it’s been learnt. Of course, I keep that to myself, and drop down into what I hope is a deep and gracious bow.

“Guilty,” I say. “My brother spoke often of you, with deep respect. It is an honour to meet you.”

“I am saddened to hear of his passing,” she says, without a single shift in her tone to suggest it.

A smile tugs at my lips, and automaton-like, as bland as I can make it, I say, “Thank you for your kindness. But I did not come here to lure well-wishes from you. I came to bargain for my rooms.”

This gets the dean’s attention. He raises a brow at me, and the way he considered me in his office—like I am a pathetic shadow of my brother—shifts a minuscule amount towards somewhere positive. “Is that right?”

Bargaining, it turns out, is damn hard when you have none of your worldly possessions and no more knowledge than anyone else about what’s about to come. But it’s easier than fighting teras, and for a moment I feel a whole lot less useless than the xenos who fought through an onslaught to get here.

“There are six of us. There’s a tower in the west wing with six rooms.” Thad’s trial rooms, but I refrain from reminding them of this. “I saw it on the way in.”

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